The Lucky Ones
by Mindy35
Summary: Sequel to "This Never Happened". Rewrites the last half of the series with Julia in it.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Lucky Ones  
Author: mindy35/mindy_makru_tutu

Rating: this chapter, K+  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to BBC, Netflix, Jed Mercurio, et al.  
Spoilers: up to ep3  
Pairing: David Budd/Julia Montague  
Summary: Rewrites the last half of the series with Julia in it.

* * *

She sits at the table, hands clasped in her lap. She smooths her damp palms down the skirt of her dress, interlocks her fingers. Her hands continue to wander though, they can't stay still. Her fingertips touch the napkin in front of her. The knife, the fork, straightening both. She'd about sell her soul for a drink but she doesn't dare order wine. Not yet. She sips her water compulsively. Her mouth is dry and there's nothing else to do. Nothing but sip and sit and wait.

Julia takes a compact from her purse, checks her lipstick, pats her hair. She's painted her eyes a little darker, gone to the trouble of wearing a dress, hoping against hope that such minor feminine gestures might make a difference. If he shows. She hopes he shows. God, she hopes... She's not entirely sure where they're at, so she's not entirely sure that he will. She snaps the compact shut and throws it back in her purse. She takes another large sip of water as a waiter approaches her table. He scuttles sensitively away when he sees that her dinner companion hasn't shown.

She glances about the place. At the white tablecloths and the expensive crystal, at the oppressive chintz and the dated wall hangings. They probably don't get many unmet dates in this place. It's not a place people go to to date and flirt and hook up. Nor to be stood up by vengeful ex-lovers. She and Roger used to come here when they were married. Rob, for some reason passing understanding, thought it would be a good idea to continue the tradition. She responded by walking out on him in favour of eating take-out with her handsome new PPO.

Julia fingers her glass, nails clinking impatiently against the crystal. She kind of hates the place. Everything so pricey, everything so perfect. Everyone behaving exquisitely in the polite hush. She'd like to break the silence, get up and pace. She'd like someone to tell her why the hell he's kept her waiting like this. She's not accustomed to it. She's usually the one people wait on, defer to. But, of course, she knows the reason for this silent, sustained torture. It's her penance. Well-deserved. And as such, she must endure it, just as she must endure any other trials he might choose to put her through. She must stifle her sigh, conceal her nerves, sit in her seat and keep her hands neatly folded. Even as the grandfather clock in one corner marks the seconds with a thunderous tick. Even as two blank-faced security officers witness her humiliation.

Kim and Tom sit several tables away looking distinctly out of place with their matching suits and slick hair and dour expressions. They really ought to do a better job of blending in with the clientele. But not even she does completely. This place still tends to attract old-school aristos, high-ranking politicians and the occasional camera shy celebrity. Discretion is their speciality. Their staff is chosen for their secrecy. Grim doormen are posted at every entrance, barring entry to any unwelcome elements, including, and most especially, the British press.

That's the one thing this place is good for, the only reason to choose it. Julia peers at the closest window. They'll be clambering out there. Just as they've been clambering outside her home and the Home Office since the story broke. She trusts David will have the sense to use the back entrance. If he decides to show. She checks her phone.

No messages.

And deliberate or not, he's definitely late. Julia shifts in her seat, sips her water, clasps her hands. And waits.

-x-

She unclasps her hands and smooths them over the linen tablecloth. She mutters _thank you_ when one of the wait staff places her tea in front of her. Julia lets it steep a moment, gazing out the window.

She doesn't frequent these old boy clubs, despite the fact that they now grudgingly allow women members. The armchairs still smell of cigar smoke and antique aftershave. And the fireplaces are always hotly guarded by some bloated, bearded patriarch. Still, she'd needed somewhere they could meet in private. Somewhere respectable but discreet, professional but comfortable. Moving through the cloud of cigar smoke, past the flickering flames in the grate and the officious gazes of the club's greying patriarchy, she'd claimed a table in a corner by a window. Even as she took her seat, she felt unsure.

This is not a wise move, she can feel it in her gut. But she had to do something, had to talk to someone. Unfortunately, the person who'd been closest to a friend to her was hauled off to jail three days prior. So now the next best thing is one of the women who incited him to spy on her. She's hoping Anne Sampson can shed some light on that aspect of David Budd's character. It was, after all, an aspect he never fully revealed to her.

Julia turns back to her tea, pours the contents into the cup and adds milk. She lifts the cup to her lips and blows away the steam. When she thinks about it now, the whole scene plays out in slow motion, with every sound and colour and emotion muted. David's red face and straining muscles and desperate eyes. His distant form being shunted into a police car as darkness descended on the city. She hadn't slept a wink that night. She'd stared at the ceiling instead. Her security detail hadn't dared to put anyone in the room next door. They'd simply left it vacant and locked the door.

She can't wait to get out of the place now. She wants this whole awful mess wrapped up so she can go back to her nice, comfy flat and her simple, single lifestyle. She wants her own bed and her own towels and her own extensive wine collection. For a short time, The Blackwood had felt like a secluded paradise. Now it feels more like a suffocating prison. She dreads going back to it each night when once she craved her return, craved the lover who only existed within its black and white walls. Julia blinks rapidly and sips her tea. At least she can count on Anne's discretion on that point, even if it is compelled.

She's one of only a few people who know that the now Head of Counter-Terrorism Command had engaged in an inappropriate relationship with a junior officer several years before. When rumours began to circulate, Anne promptly broke off the liaison. The other woman was reassigned, any witnesses were hushed and what little evidence existed was swept under the carpet. Decision made and priorities affirmed, Anne continued her meteoric rise to the rank of Commander. Julia's knowledge of the whole affair was one of the many large and small resentments fuelling their at times acrimonious relationship. Though now, as luck would have it, without even a word on the topic, she can use it to her own advantage.

Julia places her cup on its saucer and straightens her spine. She spots Anne on the threshold, her sharp eyes scanning the lavish lounge. Her harsh hair and basic suit look out of place against its warm, faded tones. A waiter approaches but Anne's eyes have already located her. She murmurs to the man then moves through the maze of armchairs and footstools to the corner where she sits.

Julia stands and extends a hand. "Thank you for meeting me here."

Anne looks confused but gives her hand a limp shake. "No problem, Home Secretary."

"Julia, please." She smiles and gestures to the waiter who has trailed Anne to their table. "Would you like something to drink?"

Anne sits as if she's hurried to make their meeting, tucks a stray strand of frazzled hair behind her ear. "Alright…" She glances up at the waiter, orders a coffee then tucks her purse down by her feet.

Taking her seat, Julia draws a breath and smiles kindly. The other woman oozes anxiety and, unlike her, Anne has never possessed the charm to hide it. "I just wanted a chat really."

Anne half-nods, anxiety in no way alleviated. "Of course."

"I have some questions," she goes on, feeling the scales of power begin to shift. "About the bomb found at St Matthew's."

Her brow wrinkles. "A report is pending—"

"It's not really a report I'm after." Julia picks up her tea, takes a sip then cautiously reveals her hand. "PS Budd," she murmurs softly, "is he…still a suspect?"

Anne's frown twitches but doesn't soften. "He's still in custody. We're not sure how much he knows. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. But he's been very tight-lipped."

"I see." She lowers her cup and lowers her eyes. "Has he said anything…about me?"

Anne speaks slowly, mind clearly connecting the dots. "I've read transcripts of all the interviews and your name is mentioned by Budd. Several times."

Julia nods her head and says nothing, colour rising to her cheeks. The waiter slides in to deliver Anne's coffee. After he leaves, she fingers the handle of the cup for a moment.

"Home Secretary— sorry. Julia." The name sounds awkward but her tone lacks any sense of judgment or alarm. "I'm sure you're aware that there have been rumours. About you and Budd."

Julia rotates her cup on the saucer, gulps thickly. "Yes."

Anne leans in a little. "Is there any truth to them?"

Julia pauses a moment. Then meets the other woman's gaze with a knowing look. "I think it's best if I don't confirm anything. Don't you?"

Her eyes widen as she retreats in her seat. "I'd say so, yes…" Anne sips her coffee, casts a wary glance about them then adds in a deliberately low voice, "He's not revealed anything personal, if that's what concerns you. Nothing that would expose or compromise you."

Julia nods a few times, looks down at her tea then back at her colleague. "Do you think he's guilty?"

Anne gives a wry little shrug. "You know the man better than we do. Do you think he's guilty?"

Her mouth opens then shuts. Her eyes drift away and her head shakes in indecision.

Anne leans forward again, putting her coffee to one side and placing her elbows on the table. "Look, if you want my opinion, Budd doesn't know a thing. Actually, we're starting to pursue the idea that this wasn't an act originating from an Islamist terror cell but one initiated by a well-known figure in organised crime."

"Organised crime?" Julia frowns at her, head tilted to one side. "That's not an angle I've heard before. Where did that line of enquiry spring from?"

"The suggestion came from Sergeant Budd in fact."

"You're taking investigative suggestions from suspects now?"

Anne's head pulls back, her face taking on the silently miffed expression Julia knows from so many of their meetings. "We're exploring all avenues open to us," she replies, blank and stoic.

Julia drops her eyes, softens her tone. No wonder she has so few friends if she treats them all like inept subordinates. "May I ask you one last thing?"

Anne dips her chin. "Go ahead."

Julia hesitates. It's a stupid question. An infantile question. But it's the question that's kept her awake all night every night since his arrest. It nags at her twenty-four hours a day. And yet it's the one question she cannot trust herself to answer alone. "Should I go there, speak with him?"

Anne blinks at her a few times then answers carefully, "I wouldn't recommend it. Not if you want to keep this thing under wraps. Which I assume you do."

She nods absently. "Of course…"

There's a pause. The room murmurs, the fire spits. A waiter laughs at the unfunny joke of a patron. Honey is stirred into tea and silver clinks against china. Anne eyes her shrewdly and seems to wonder whether they're done.

"I can keep you updated," she adds, "if you like."

Julia gives another nod. "Thank you."

"But best to let us do our jobs, let this thing play out."

"Yes…" Julia takes a breath, summons a smile. "Well. Again, I appreciate your discretion, Anne."

Anne rises, collects her belongings, then bobs her head. "Home Secretary."

Julia watches her go then turns her gaze out the window again. She sips her tea, scrolls through her messages then calls for the bill. Tom escorts her through the foyer and down the stairs to her car. She could easily head home now. Take her ministerial box and briefcase up to her suite and work from The Blackwood for the remainder of the evening. The place no longer feels like home though. It dents and distracts her with its memories and associations and its inescapable lack of him. It won't forget. So neither can she.

She asks them to take her back to her office instead. There are still plenty of people about, wrapping up for the day, making those final phone calls, sending those last minute emails and arranging those collegial post-work drinks. Julia moves straight through to her office, dispensing with her coat and cases. Tom takes up his all-seeing position as her door swings shut. She paces back and forth in the silence, step slow and pensive. Then she moves to the window, folds her arms and gazes out at the city.

She knows Anne's advice is sound. However much she might wish to, she cannot go down there. She can't sign a logbook of visitors, leave a paper trail, create witnesses. She can't use her station to gain access to him, she can't interfere in an investigation into an attempted act of terror. She cannot stand, face to face with him, and demand he tell her the truth. She must simply let this thing play out.

Julia moves to her desk and picks up the phone – then pauses with the handset halfway to her ear. Because the police _have_ asked to speak with her. The female detective with a chip on her shoulder – Louise something – did call. More than once. She brought that file to David's arrest, knowing perhaps that she might need some persuading. No doubt she'd heard the rumours too. No doubt she wished to establish the exact nature of her relationship with her potentially murderous PPO. Julia knows she'll have to be prepared for such questions and, so far, she hasn't been. She's been reeling. She's been in shock. But she's catching up now.

She lowers the handset, takes a breath and holds it. She could go to Counter Terrorism Command, apologise for her unavailability. She could say that she has been busy dealing with the fall-out from her no-show at St Matthew's. She could call right now, tell them she has some time and is willing to come to them, to work with them. And while she's there, she may be able to get a read on what's happening. She may be able to ask some questions of her own. She may even be able to wrangle an unofficial visit with their suspect. Julia reaches for the phone again – just as it rings.

A media officer from one of London's major trauma centres is on the other end of the line. In a measured tone, she says that she's been authorised by a representative of Number 10 to inform her that the Prime Minister is in critical condition following a car accident earlier that afternoon. Julia's heart hiccups in her chest, her knees wobble under her. The woman gives no further detail on the accident. She just tells her that she has been cleared by the Prime Minister's wife and staff to visit, if she wishes. Julia thanks the woman, tells her she will come immediately then hangs up the phone. She calls Tom in, has him arrange her transportation and protection.

In the car, her body thrums with anxiety. Her heels bob, her fingers hover at her lips. She glances in the rear-view mirror at Tom. Then looks out the window instead. She needs that friend again, that trusted confidant. Because she can't help entertaining the idea that their country's leader was targeted, just as she had been. It could be paranoia. Or it could all be part of one big plot. Police swarm the hospital and she speaks with them willingly. She finds the most senior officer available and gets as much detail on the crash as possible. No one seems to be able to give her a straight answer on whether or not the accident was suspicious, or is being investigated as such. So in the end, she excuses herself and moves through the throng.

She has to talk to half a dozen people from the police, the hospital and Number 10 before she's led through to the Prime Minister's private room. She's warned that, following surgery, she will find him in a medically induced coma. Julia nods impatiently and steps through the door. The room is empty except for John and all the machines he's hooked up to. They blip and breathe and scan and spike around him. His robust form lies in white and blue sheets, making a mockery of the medical paraphernalia that would make him appear weak. But then he'll always be larger than life to her. Stout and hearty and endlessly energetic.

She moves to the bedside and takes his hand. It's loose and dry and covered in hospital tape. She squeezes his fingers in hers, releases a long, sad breath. She's trying to think of something comforting to say to the silence when the door cracks open and the guards admit his wife. She's carrying a cup of tea in a shaky hand and her eyes well with tears when she sees her.

"June," Julia moves towards her, takes her elbow and guides her to a chair by the bed. "I'm so sorry…"

June pats her hand and thanks her for coming. Julia encourages her to drink her tea, listens to her account of day, hands her tissues for her tears. She watches the older woman reach for her husband's hand and hold it tightly in both of hers. June whispers to John under her breath as Julia retreats a few steps and prepares herself to wait.

_TBC..._


	2. Chapter 2

Rating: this chapter, K+  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to BBC, Netflix, Jed Mercurio, et al.  
Spoilers: up to ep3  
Pairing: David Budd/Julia Montague  
Summary: Rewrites the last half of the series with Julia in it.

* * *

He scrambles through the debris, eyes burning and ears ringing. He's done all this before but it doesn't make her any easier to locate. He checks the pulse of a corpse, mutters nonsense into his dead walkie-talkie. He doesn't know where he's going, he's disoriented in the aftermath. But she was on the stage, a wide, raised platform. And she was wearing a bright orange shirt. He remembers that much. He searches for orange amongst the grey-brown smoke and finds her. Blood on orange, soot on skin. He scrambles towards her and she stirs at his touch – still alive. Still alive.

He's so fucking angry with her. Because he told her not to come out here. Afghanistan is a dangerous fucking place. A place of sand and wind and weight and death. Helmand is hell on earth and he'd told her so. He'd told her she didn't belong here. She should never have followed him, never have meddled in this lethal landscape. He's so fucking angry and so fucking relieved. Tears leak from his stinging eyes and land on her blackened face. Her cheek twitches and her eyes crack open. Part of his relief is the shadowy realisation in the back of his mind that this is a dream, it's always been a dream. A nightmare and nothing more. He's had it too many times to be fooled by it now. He's had it too many times not to remember what comes next.

They're still in Helmand but it's a delicious kind of hell. Hell under a white sheet. Hell that smells of sex and seems suspended indefinitely in time. She giggles like he's never seen or heard before. He tells her secrets he's never told another soul before. She touches him in places where scars no longer exist and he touches her everywhere he can reach. They decide to stay in hell and fuck every night for the rest of their lives. But then she breaks her promise, leaves their self-created heaven/hell. When she leans over to give him a parting kiss, he reaches out for her. He tries to lift his hands to her face and hold her against his lips. He wants to keep her there, one more moment. But one hand won't lift, it's jammed at his side. The other moves towards her cheek but the closer it gets, the further away she drifts. She becomes blurry and faint, sinking away from him. The light behind her head conceals her features and blinds his sore, squinting eyes. Julia captures the hand that reaches for her. She doesn't let it touch her cheek, she doesn't let him draw her close. She just holds it tight in both of hers as she murmurs his name.

"Dave…Dave…?"

He blinks and tries to form the three syllables that make up her name. His eyes and throat and lips feel scorched dry. She offers him a plastic cup of water but he doesn't want to release her hand. He tries to reach for it with his other hand but it's still pinned. Something clinks against something else so he turns his lethargic gaze in that direction. There's a handcuff around one of his wrists, keeping him chained to the bed. He blinks at it without understanding it. Then he hears his wife's voice again.

"Dave…are you okay?"

He turns back, body slumping in the sheets. She really does have a knack for asking the most inane questions at the most dire moments. He can't bear to answer her so he just gives a grunt of recognition and examines his surroundings.

"Where am I?"

Vicky tells him that he was taken to the nearest hospital after falling and hitting his head in his cell. She takes a breath then adds reproachfully: "You didn't even call, Dave. You could've _told me _you'd been taken in for questioning."

His eyes drift over the sterile walls. "Sorry, love…" he answers, dull and automatic.

Vicky fills him in on the details. She tells him what the police told her, how she received the call at work, had to leave the kids with friends. "Nobody seems to know," she goes on, "how you managed to hurt yourself in that tiny cell."

David grits his jaw. "Tripped."

"On what?" she huffs dubiously.

He opens his mouth, shrugs one shoulder. "Don't remember."

Vicky sighs and reaches for the water again, makes him drink. The next time she speaks, her voice is softer. "You can me tell the truth. I won't tell the police."

His voice is stronger after drinking. "I _told you_ the truth, Vic. I _tripped._"

She shakes her head and sets the cup aside. Her voice remains soft but underlain with exasperated exhaustion. "You _need help_, Dave..."

He tries to wag his heavy, hurt head, tries to close his eyes and shake it back and forth. Just like he had when Julia said the same thing. Because he didn't want those words spoken aloud. He didn't want anyone to know. He just wanted to take his pills and get better without anyone ever knowing how weak he'd once been. He didn't want Vicky knowing. His kids or his friends or his colleagues. And he especially didn't want Julia knowing. He just wanted to fix it and be whole again.

"You can't keep pretending like this. If you…" Vicky's eyes widen in incomprehension, "If you did this _to yourself_—"

"I was _getting help_," he interrupts insistently. "I saw a doctor, I was taking pills—" He beats his head against his pillow, voice lowering to a shamed mumble. "It was when I stopped taking them that I started feeling dizzy."

There's a pause. Then she gets it:

"Which is why you fell."

"Aye. S'why I fell."

Vicky tilts her head contritely, leaning in to whisper, "You know you're not supposed to stop taking those things suddenly."

He shrugs again. "I didn't want the police to know. I'm seeing this guy off the books."

"Right…" She nods a few times, straightens. "Well, I'm glad, Dave. I am. _And_," she adds, reaching for her coat and purse, "you'll be glad to know that the police are going release you. At least that's what the officer I spoke to said."

He glances at the cuff on his right hand, circles his wrist in the restraint. "Great."

She squeezes his free hand, gives him a tight smile. "Let me know when and I'll pick you up, okay?"

David bobs his head, "Sure…" and watches her exit.

It's after she goes that the pain finally hits him. He doesn't remember much but the left side of his head is bandaged and throbbing. He lifts his free hand to feel around it. He's a lucky man. A blow like that could've done real damage. A little lower and he'd be a dead man. And they'd all think it was deliberate. An act of guilt. A silent confession. His character would be set, his actions irredeemable. He'd be put in the ground as Julia Montague's almost assassin. And he'd never get the opportunity to clear his name, to let it be known – to Julia more than anyone – that he had never conspired against her. Never sought to harm her, only ever sought to protect her.

David shifts in the bed, sits a little higher against his pillow. His main aim now is to get out of this bed, get out of these cuffs and get back on the case. He's had plenty of time alone in his cell to run through the various players and their potential motives. He's over the shock, ready to be released back into the wild. He's primed to start unravelling an intricate web of hidden alliances that dragged the two of them into its sticky folds before they even met. It brought Julia and him together then brutally ripped them apart and he's going to get to the bottom of it even if it kills him. He knows the police are hitting a brick wall with him. They've got nothing on him, or at least, not enough to hold him further under the Terrorism Act. It's only a matter of time before they're forced to set him free.

He's released the next afternoon, but only after another earnest lecture from the female copper. Rayburn tries to pin his eyes, tries to appeal to him regarding his mental health. She lowers her voice and shuffles in close and seeks an intimacy regarding his "special relationship" with his principal. David interrupts her, tells her for the last time that he was not involved in any plot to assassinate Julia Montague _and_ he plans on proving it. He collects his belongings, signs out and exits before she can reply. Vicky is parked on the curb outside, car engine running. As they drive back to the safe house, she tells him that Rayburn took a final run at her as well.

Vicky scoffs as she turns the wheel. "I told her they had the wrong man, that you would never get involved in anything like that." She barely pauses before adding, "And you would _definitely_ never get involved with a woman like that."

David watches the traffic scroll by, answers without hesitation. "I was involved."

She frowns his way. "How d'you mean?"

"Julia and I," he keeps his eyes front, chooses his words carefully, "were involved. We were having an affair."

Vicky falls silent. Her driving remains steady and sensible.

His throat feels clogged and his face hot. But he's had plenty of time to think so he forces himself to tell the whole truth. "I fell for her. I fell…in love…with her."

His ex glances his way, her mouth slightly ajar. She doesn't know how to respond and, as if on cue, as if to heroically rescue her, to fill and explain the awkward silence, her phone sings a ditty in a pocket of the car's console. It brings up the name and face of a handsome, smiling man. Vicky dismisses the call then shoots him a look that's half apology, half defiant pity.

David's familiar with the look, he's been on the receiving end of it multiple times. Something within him wants to respond to that look, to insist that his affair with Julia had nothing to do with her affair with whoever was on the other end of that call. It wasn't about rebound or revenge. It wasn't about the past, about loss or rage or loneliness. It wasn't about her or Ella or Charlie. It was about no one but him and what he wanted, who he needed and desired and loved. David opens his mouth to tell her this then stops. Because it's not her he needs to convince. It's not Vicky's opinion he values above anyone else's. It's not her love and esteem he seeks. Not now, not anymore.

They arrive at the safe house and he heads straight upstairs with his bag from The Blackwood. Some dutiful PC has examined the contents before neatly re-packing them. But his meds are still stashed in a secret pocket. David punctures the foil, looks at the little white pill in his palm then at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He thinks of Julia Montague – thinks of how much he loves her and how much he resents her, how her voice had formed the icy phrase _take him away_ and her eyes had watched from above as he was shoved into a police vehicle, he thinks of the long hours he waited in his cell, not knowing whether to hope for her – then he downs the thing with a swig of water. He showers and shaves, changes his clothes. Before heading back downstairs, he pulls a hat from his bag and eases it down over his wounded head.

Vicky is folding laundry in front of the television in the living room. The newscaster on screen seems to be relishing her role in relaying an even more heightened level of the British media's usual high drama. The screen cuts to live footage of Roger Penhaligon, standing outside Number 10, bolstered on both sides by fellow party members as reporters stick branded microphones at him and clamber for answers to their most burning questions.

David's brow creases as he tries to make sense of the words coming out of the Chief Whip's mouth. "What's going on?"

"Haven't you heard?" Vicky curls a pair of Charlie's socks together then tosses them onto his pile. "The PM was in a car accident, he's in a coma."

David moves closer to the television. "So who's running the country?"

Vicky hums indifferently. "They're still fighting over it. Maybe this guy..."

He turns to her in outrage. "_This guy_?"

She glances at her watch then waves a hand at the laundry. "Do you mind finishing this while I go collect the kids?"

David shakes his head but as soon as she's gone, he makes himself a cup of tea and starts surfing through the television channels in search of further information. It's mid-afternoon so there isn't a lot of news available. It's mostly re-aired footage of reporters standing outside the hospital where the PM is rumoured to be receiving treatment. They play the same clips of Penhaligon over and over again, interspersed with pictures of Volser and his family in happier times. He turns the television off when his kids burst through the door. They fling themselves at him, giggling and tugging at his hat. David hugs Ella and Charlie tight, lifts them up and plants all three of them on the couch.

He spends the rest of the afternoon constructing a massive blanket fort with them. It's a game they never played in their old house but one that, with all the recent upset, makes Ella and Charlie feel safe. Ella brings every pillow or cushion in the house into the enclosure and Charlie lights the place with his glow-worm nightlight. Sitting in a circle around the rosey light, Ella asks why he was taken to jail.

"They made a mistake," David tells her. "They thought I did something that I didn't do."

"Like Kermie," Charlie responds after a moment's thought.

He nods, vaguely recalling a Muppet movie in which Kermit the Frog is falsely imprisoned. "Right," he replies, "just like Kermie."

He helps Ella cut tomatoes and Charlie grate cheese for dinner. They sit at the kitchen table and eat Vicky's spaghetti bolognese as the kids tell them about their day. Afterwards, he bathes them and reads to them in the blanket fort. He and Ella and Charlie take turns picking titles and reading them aloud. Ella no longer gets frustrated with Charlie's slow progress, she no longer grabs the book from him to finish it herself. Now, she lies back on her mound of pillows and listens dreamily as Charlie picks more and more capably through the childlike prose. His reading, along with his confidence, has steadily improved since his enrolment at his new school. David watches over his shoulder as he turns and tackles each page, rarely needing help and never being reduced to tears.

They fall asleep in the blanket fort and he lifts them one at a time to their beds, leaving their bedroom door slightly cracked. Vicky lingers in the hall, warm and tired and patiently awaiting his departure. David tells her he will call to check in, collects his bag and leaves.

He picks up some lager on the way home, turns the television on as soon as he enters. He flicks around for a bit, finds some footage he hasn't seen before. He flicks again, finds Andrew Marr interviewing Penhaligon. He flicks once more and finds Julia in a white suit. She's standing before a bank of microphones, supporting Vosler's teary wife. Vosler's grown daughter stands on the other side of her mother. The daughter looks stoic as the mother gives a halting statement. Reporters clamber for a sound bite of Julia's voice, they ask her about the leadership of the party. Julia raises a hand, takes the old woman's arm and leads her away from the cameras.

David sticks with this channel and soon he sees her again. A pundit is speculating on who will assume the Prime Ministership. Penhaligon is the front runner. But Julia's name is also put forward as a possibility, along with two other ministers with an outside chance. As the pundit makes her case, b-roll is shown of Julia entering the Home Office and commanding the House. Among the strikes against her, the pundit points out, is her ignominious retreat at St Matthew's. They play the moment back, complete with eggs hitting the tinted windows of her impenetrable car. There's footage of all the reigning party's ministers meeting for talks, making a good show of their solidarity. In it, Julia walks and stands a long way behind Penhaligon and rarely gives statements beyond the party line.

The pundit outlines Penhaligon's case last, emphasising the long-time loyalty and friendship he and Vosler enjoyed. There's an old picture of the two men standing side by side in front of a hedge during their university days. Though several years apart, the pundit intones, Penhaligon and Vosler's paths first crossed at Oxford, an institution to which both remained staunchly supportive. Something about the image makes David sit up, lean forward. Another person has been cropped out of the picture, only her arm remains. A bare, slim, pale arm. He rewinds on the image, looks at it again. Then he mutes the television to think.

David digs out his notepad and looks at his old notes, brain ticking over and speeding up. His computer hasn't been returned yet and it's probably not wise to use it anyway. He spends a sleepless night staring at the ceiling, hands twitching, blood boiling. An ancient rage has been reignited by her image, fuelled by a near feverish indignation at her more recent betrayal. She floats before his eyes in that dammed white suit – so pure, so noble, so undented and utterly undentable. Hate mingles with love, confusion with devotion. Shame at his own actions is subsumed by resentment of hers. He knows exactly what to do with such inconvenient emotion.

First thing in the morning, he downs a coffee and heads to an internet café out of his area. He finds who he's looking for pretty easily, makes sure it's the same person. The dates and places line up and her professional profile lists her work address. David jots it down then makes for the closest tube station. He buys a bacon and egg sarnie and devours it on the street as he waits for her to take her lunch break. From her picture, she looked like a nondescript kind of person – brown hair, pretty face, petite frame. No doubt as well-dressed and well-spoken as all those Oxbridge types. Obviously a hard worker too because she doesn't emerge from her office until after two pm. David pulls himself away from the wall where he's been slouched and dodges some cars as he crosses the street.

"Charlotte Tilden-Smith?"

She turns as he approaches from behind. "Yes?"

He takes a few more steps towards her. "Maiden name Foxfield?"

Charlotte Foxfield faces him fully, a hard question in her eyes.

David flashes his badge and lowers his voice. "I wonder if I might ask you a few questions."

_TBC..._


	3. Chapter 3

Rating: M, sexy stuff and adult themes  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to BBC, Netflix, Jed Mercurio, et al.  
Spoilers: up to ep3  
Pairing: David Budd/Julia Montague  
Summary: Rewrites the last half of the series with Julia in it.

* * *

RIPA 18 dies a slow death. She never quite managed to snatch the narrative back after her infamous nonappearance at St Matthew's. The press assumed she'd either lost her nerve, lost confidence in the bill or lost faith in her own ability to sell it to the public. And perhaps they weren't wrong. In any case, the far bigger story of John's accident and subsequent incapacitation soon take up every available column inch in the country. Day after day, hour after hour, questions regarding his unoccupied Prime Ministership are the top story of every news bulletin and panel show on air. These are frequently followed by filmed grumblings of members of the British public, who are all, without exception, tired of government infighting and frustrated with parliamentary proceedings coming to a standstill.

The British constitution is unenviably vague on the matter. Many believe the Deputy PM should succeed, or the First Secretary of State. Others believe the final decision belongs to the Queen herself. Roger blitzes the airways, leads party discussions and pushes for a swift appointment. The country's morale is sinking, he insists to colleagues, journalists and anyone else who will listen. The people are crying out for a leader, one who will take control of the government and the country. No word comes from the hospital on if or when the PM might recover and be fit to resume his duties. So during a late night meeting of the party's cabinet ministers, Roger is voted Acting Prime Minister.

His first act as leader is to meet with each of his ministers to discuss their portfolio. During their meeting, her ex-husband is smugly magnanimous. Though he also tells her that he will see to it that RIPA 18 is binned and, when it is, she is to let it go. From here on in, she is to play nice and tow the party line. She is to behave like a model minister and if she puts one foot even slightly wrong she will be banished to the backbench.

Julia rises from her seat. "Is that it?"

Roger rises also. He takes his time extending a hand across the big new desk he's assumed at Number 10. "Home Secretary."

Julia shakes his hand without returning his smile. "Prime Minister."

The only good thing about RIPA 18's demise is that she is no longer a target. With her risk level downgraded, she is permitted to return home. And not a moment too soon, she thinks as she packs her belongings. It's amazing the things one accumulates over such a short period of time. She'd not had the luxury of thoughtful packing so she'd purchased some things that she hadn't had the time or opportunity to retrieve from her home address. Amongst the newly bought items is the skimpy black chemise she hasn't worn, hasn't even been able to look at, since that last disastrous night with David.

It's not her usual night attire. She often wears satin pyjamas but in the form of wide-legged pants and buttoned-up shirts. Perhaps a knee-length nightshirt in summer. But not this sort of thing. She's never worn this sort of thing, not even for Roger when they were married. It never seemed within her sexual range to inhabit such a sensuous costume. She'd had to time the buying of it, venturing into the department store first thing in the morning with Kim as her only backup. The protection officer's face remained as blank as always as the sale assistant wrapped her purchase, which included a matching robe, in metres of untameable tissue paper. The young woman handed the parcel across with a smile that was equally detached and discreet.

Julia hadn't been sure about wearing the combination at all. It was made of nice quality satin with no lace or pearls or other embellishments. But it seemed far too obvious a statement to make in his presence. And it _was_ meant to be worn in his presence. It was meant to promote a certain kind of activity, to allow an intimate kind of access. She'd slipped the satin on after a shower, tied the robe tight. It had long sleeves and came down to mid-calf, making her feel a little less exposed, a little less like an older woman desperately attempting to woo a much younger mate. Even with the coverage, David got the message straight away.

He was camped out on the couch, scrolling through his phone, when she entered the main room of the suite. His brows had risen, his eyes dropping over her. "Is that your usual night attire, Home Secretary?"

She'd smiled and offered him a glass of wine. David ignored the question, dropped his phone, left the couch and approached her slowly.

"Is this for me?" he murmured as he pulled at the tie on the robe.

It slipped free and his hands stole inside, over the slippery satin, over her hips. He kissed her neck and glanced down at her bare legs. She muttered something breathy about it being just as easy to pick something up from a store as it was to venture home. He smiled in response, slid the robe off one shoulder and kissed her there. Then he dropped to his knees, kissing her belly and skimming his fingertips up the backs of her thighs. He kissed her through the satin then ducked his head underneath to kiss her cunt. Her underwear was silky too but he slipped them right off, down her quaking legs. He guided her to the couch and she lay back, black satin pooling around and over her. He moved slowly, positioning her at the edge, parting her thighs and slipping his tongue between her folds.

Julia sighed in satisfaction, head lolling back against the couch cushions. She held onto his head, scraped his scalp and raked through his hair as he ate her out. He never rushed this part, never seemed tentative about it either. He grasped her hips and stuck fingers inside her, nosed her clit and breathed her in. Head between her thighs, he reached a hand up to knead one breast, to pinch a nipple into a stiff, needy peak. He opened his eyes and looked up at her when she came, writhing and bucking and panting his name. Then he smiled against her thigh as she came down, stubble gently abrading her skin as her breath became deeper and slower and calmer.

"I take it you approve," she murmured in her post-orgasmic haze.

David chuckled and crawled up her body. "I better fuck you. Just to make sure..."

So he had.

Julia throws the thing at her suitcase, though she doubts she'll ever wear it again. It's back to full-length pyjamas for her. Sleeping alone in the middle of the bed. Takeaway dinners with Rob as they run through the day's events in mind-numbing detail. He's been especially attentive lately, suffocatingly sympathetic. He enters the bedroom and she closes her suitcase on the folded collection of clothes and underwear, the chemise sitting slinkily atop. She's not quite done packing but her skin crawls just having him in her private space, let alone letting him see her more intimate apparel. Rob tells her that he's taken the rest of her things down to her waiting car. Julia nods and says she'll be right down.

She waits for him to leave then moves to the dresser. She takes a shirt out, it's the last thing she packs, the only thing she has of him. She found it after he left. She didn't even have to lift it to her nose to smell the scent of him. It's probably faded now but she still packs the shirt in a separate compartment so that his scent doesn't blend with hers. They're separate beings now. Divided and disconnected – as they always were, really. Anne updated her that day, told her that David had been released from custody. He hadn't called. And neither had she. She'd stared at his number on the screen of her phone but had been unable to press call.

Julia zips her suitcase and swings it to the floor. It's heavier now, much heavier than she remembers. She glances about the bedroom then moves through to the next room. Kim waits at the door, holds it as Julia exits the suite.

In the car, Rob prattles on about the dinner he's planned. No take-out tonight, he announces proudly. He's bought supplies and he's going to cook for her, make sure she eats a good meal. Julia smiles and thanks him, though she can't think of anything she'd like less. The only thing she wants right now is to be home, to be alone. Still, they have work to discuss and she can make sure the dinner is brief. He helps her in with her suitcase and other belongings, wittering away the whole time. Kim checks her flat over without a word then leaves to stand watch without. Left alone with Rob, Julia heads straight for the nearest wine bottle. She chooses a fairly heavy shiraz.

She sips and nods as he chats and prepares their dinner. She tries to keep their conversation work-related but one glass in and she starts feeling sloppy. So she retires to the couch to scan some documents while she still has the brain power. Twenty minutes later, she looks up from the file in her lap when the lights dim and she realises that Rob has set the table and lit two slender candles. Her head is foggy but not foggy enough to miss his intent. She slaps the file shut, gets to her feet, wavers slightly, grabs her wineglass then follows him into the kitchen. She tries to suggest that they work while they eat, on the couches like they usually do. Preferably with an arm's length between them, she thinks but doesn't say aloud.

Rob is having none of it. "Nonsense. What _you need_ is a decent meal and a nice, relaxing night off."

"Rob—"

He turns to her, presses two fingers to her lips. "Shhh. It's o-kay." His gaze softens and moves down to her mouth. "I can't imagine…" he muses tenderly, "everything you've been through. You've been…" he smiles and shakes his head in wonderment, "so incredible, Julia, so strong."

She pulls back and opens her mouth.

Rob cups her jaw instead, sidles in closer. "Let me do this for you..." His eyes run over her face, land again on her lips. "Let me take care of you." He kisses her lightly, plucks at her lips with his. A hand curls around her waist, draws her close. "We don't have to decide now…what this is." He holds her tighter, kisses her more deeply, tries to part her lips with his. "It can just be tonight if that's what you need."

Julia turns her head away, pushes against him with her fists. "Rob—"

His hold on her doesn't loosen, not even when there's a knock at the door. He kisses her neck, grins against her cold flesh. "Leave it," he murmurs, all teasing sensuality.

Julia yanks her body free, spilling some of her wine in the process. She practically growls in frustration as she makes for the door.

"Leave it…" Rob insists, trailing behind with a sigh of defeat.

He catches up with her, is right at her elbow when she opens the door on David. David. Just standing there. With his usual hair and his usual face and that hard, cold stare back in his eyes. There's no love in them, no tenderness or understanding. Just glaring censure, arrogant reproof and tightly concealed rage. He's dressed in black civvies and there's an ugly purple mark on one side of his head. Her lips part at it, one hand almost lifts towards him. Then Kim leans into the frame.

"Not a scheduled visitor, Ma'am, but I thought you might—"

She doesn't know how to finish the sentence so Julia jumps in, mutters breathily, "Yes, Kim. Thank you."

Kim glances back and forth between her and David before asking even more hesitantly, "Would you…like me to step inside or—?"

Rob interjects this time, holding up a hand and assuring her, "_I'll _stay with her."

David doesn't speak, his eyes don't leave her face. Not until he brushes past her, shoulder butting shoulder, unyielding body dividing her from her overprotective advisor. "This won't take long," he mutters as he heads for the living room.

Rob orders her protection officer to stand by then closes the door. Julia follows David, heart thumping in her chest. He comes to a stop at her dining table and turns in a slow circle, taking in the lowered lights, the candlelit dinner and the half-consumed shiraz.

"Didn't mean to interrupt…" he mutters, tone pointed and slightly accusatory.

Rob strides back into the room and stands at her side.

Julia moves to the closest flat surface, puts her wineglass down. She runs her eyes over David, notes the folder in one hand. "You have something for me?"

David glares at Rob, face creased with disdain. "Could you give us a moment?"

"Anything you have to say to the Home Secretary," he replies with the practised ease of a professional interloper, "you can say in front of me."

David gives the other man a final glower then takes a step towards her. "I looked into those accusations against the PM—"

"What accusations?" Rob interjects.

David's face screws up in annoyance. "Does he _have to be here_?"

Julia opens her mouth but Rob steps up, voice punchy, "I'm not going anywhere, pal."

"_Pal_?" David's voice spikes with incredulity and he jabs a thumb in his direction. "Is this guy _serious?_"

"Just…" Julia takes a breath and moves between them, "tell me what you came here to tell me."

David releases a breath and moves away from Rob, drawing her into an urgent private conference. "There was only one name in that file, right? One person who could confirm or deny the allegations against Vosler."

Julia glances at her side-lined advisor but allows herself to be drawn in. She looks at David from under her brows, gives a wary shake of her head. "Please tell me you didn't approach a sexual assault victim."

"She's not a victim," he hisses, low and urgent, "she's a co-conspirator. And she's not the only one who went to university with the PM." He opens the file on a black and white picture, blown up from a much poorer original. It shows three figures in front of a hedge, two men and one woman in long academic robes. "Your husband—"

"Ex-husband," she corrects.

"—was there too." He leans in, lowers his voice further. "Charlotte wasn't in Vosler's cohort. She was in Penhaligon's. They were family friends. _Intimate_ friends..."

Her eyes flick from the photo up to his, catching the connotation.

"_He knew_," he adds, "when Charlotte fell into debt. Penhaligon _knew_ and he offered a solution."

"You're saying," she ventures slowly, gaze holding his, "that the rape allegation was bought and paid for."

"Charlotte confirmed it. Your husband—"

"_Ex_-husband," comes a voice from outside their circle.

They both stop and look over at Rob McDonald, who has been watching every look, listening to every word. They pull back slightly, reset themselves. Julia shuffles her feet, David ducks his head. Rob moves closer, an expression of dawning realisation on his typically dopey face.

"Julia…?" His eyes shift back and forth between them, "What's going on here?"

David closes the file and faces him, chin lifted. "That's not your concern." There's a long beat before he adds the obligatory, "Sir."

Rob draws nearer, opens his mouth to bite back. But Julia curls a hand around David's elbow, murmurs his name. His chin drops, his fist unclenches. David stands down, steps past Rob. He places the file on the table next to the candles, turns and speaks to her while ignoring her dinner companion:

"Charlotte Foxfield's personal details and amended statement. You can take him down. If you want to." And with that, he heads for the door.

Julia dodges Rob to follow. "David…"

"Julia…" Rob huffs and follows behind.

David yanks open her front door but turns back, leaning in to pin her eyes. "We're even," he tells her in the millisecond that they're alone. His posture suddenly straightens and his eyes cut over her shoulder. "Sir," he rat-tats with exaggerated deference. David pauses, turns his gaze back on her, pronounces with less volume and much more regret, "…Ma'am."

Her lips part as she watches him leave.

Rob tries to talk to her after David's departure but she tells him to get the hell out. In those exact words. When he won't, when he asks more questions and tries to touch her again, she adds some profanity to the phrase and is finally left alone. Julia moves through to the kitchen, shoulders drooping and stomach grumbling. She's suddenly ravenous but the smell of the food Rob has cooked turns her stomach. She sips some more wine, picks at the cheese he grated for their pasta. She turns the lights back up, blows out the candles and doesn't touch the file David left behind.

She heads instead for the bathroom, twists the taps over the bathtub, strips down and eases her body into the hot, rising water. She leans her head back against the porcelain and gazes up at the ceiling. Her body heats with the water and the steam and the wine and the memory of his presence. She runs her hands over her body, over the parts he used to touch and cherish, play with and possess. Her flesh doesn't quite feel like her own again, not yet. She's old enough and experienced enough to know that the feeling will fade. The parts of her that defected will rethink their allegiance. Her curves will slowly return to her, her blood will forget his name. Her most intimate pleasures will no longer be associated with him and only him. But for now, they are. For now, they remain his. For now, every part of her reminds her of some part of him.

Still, it could've been much worse. She could've been much more unlucky. She could've been left with outward as well as inward scars. If she'd been standing on that stage when the bomb detonated. If he hadn't stopped her when he did. It would've changed her whole life, if not ended it entirely. The fact that it didn't is down to one man. Her supposed enemy. Her supposed betrayer. Whether or not David was in some way, at some point involved in the plot to destroy her, the fact remains that he saved her life that day. It's possible he conspired against her before knowing her but ultimately reneged due to their unexpected personal entanglement. It's equally possible that he's innocent. That he was acting on nothing more than a gut feeling, on paranoia born of trauma. There's ample evidence against him. Her mind sifts through it daily. A ritual. A reminder. It's so routine now that the various incriminating elements have lost all weight, all meaning.

She soaks until she's sober and soft and sleepy. Then she pats herself dry and dresses in satin pyjamas that extend all the way down her legs and all the way down her arms. She makes herself a herbal tea and takes it back to her bedroom along with the file David gave her. Julia slips between the covers, sips her tea and reviews the contents. More than once. Then she sets the file aside and thinks.

He's right. She could take him down. Easily. Arrange for it not to be traced back to her. Roger would be finished in politics. An investigation would be opened. He'd have to vacate Volser's position, retire to that lovely country estate his family have been keeping in trust for him all these years. The scandal might reflect poorly on the party but, with a strong and dedicated new leader, it's possible they could recover from both Vosler's absence and Penhaligon's disgrace.

Julia picks up the file and reads Charlotte Foxfield's statement a third time. It's more than a little convincing. And David's words ring in her head the whole time. _You can take him down…if you want to. _It isn't just about what she wants though, or used to want. It's about larger, more lasting consequences – not only for the future of the country and the stability of the party, but for her own already fraught conscience.

_TBC..._


	4. Chapter 4

Rating: T  
Disclaimer: See chapter 1  
Spoilers: up to ep3  
Pairing: David Budd/Julia Montague  
Summary: Rewrites the last half of the series with Julia in it.

* * *

The story breaks the next day. And he knows exactly who's to blame.

His phone won't stop beeping and buzzing and press swarm outside his door from the moment the sun rises. He can't turn on the television or listen to the radio without hearing his own name paired with hers in Britain's favourite new scandal. They're an obsession, a commodity, a plaything for every media operative without a conscience. Not everything they print or voice is true. But the truth is immaterial. Perception is all that counts.

David slings on his hat, steels himself before opening the front door. He keeps his head down and his mouth shut as he dodges the tight tangle of bodies and cameras and microphones. He's used to dealing with such chaos on another person's behalf but he's invisible whenever he does so. He's unused to being in the spotlight, a lone target against the chaotic onslaught of questions and accusations. He doesn't respond to them. He just escapes as quickly as possible.

He parks two streets away, stalks determinedly to his destination and lies in wait. McDonald's face looks even dopier in his streamlined bicycle helmet. But he's in no mood to laugh. Throughout the confrontation, David can't shake the image from the previous night of him standing on the street outside Julia's flat with a touch of her lipstick on his lips. From several paces away, he'd raised his voice to tell the idiot to give it up, Julia wasn't interested. McDonald had stepped boldly closer, asking him how he could possibly know what Julia wanted or needed. Kim had interjected at that point, addressing them like rowdy lads and ordering them to move along. The men obeyed but not before David smiled at Rob. Not before he saw the thwarted spark of realisation in the other man's eyes. If Julia's infatuated advisor hadn't been sure after witnessing their private conference just moments before then that smile made sure he had no conceivable doubt. By the time they parted the night prior, Rob McDonald knew for certain that David Budd possessed an intimate knowledge of what Julia Montague wanted. And had given it to her.

McDonald denies going to the press. He insists that he'd never do anything to jeopardise Julia's career or bring shame on her office. David has no choice but to grab his bike to prevent him from riding away. No choice but to back him against the trash bins then pin him to the whitewashed wall, one arm twisted up his spine. He orders him to confess to Julia that he's the "anonymous source within the Home Office" before tendering his immediate resignation. He gives Rob a final shove:

"It'd be redundant to say I know where you live." Then walks away.

He's approaching his car when his phone rings. David answers knowing it's the call he's been dreading all morning. She'll have seen the headlines by now. Each one accompanied by a video capture of him and Julia linking fingers and touching foreheads in the Home Office elevator. The fleeting moment was the only expression of connection they'd allowed themselves in that professional context. But clearly, Rob found it.

Vicky is deadpan as she tells him she'll be filing for divorce. The affair doesn't bother her but the public humiliation is too much. His family's stint at the safe house will be over soon so she, Ella and Charlie will no longer be entitled to police protection. No doubt she wants to put as much distance between him and them as possible before they return home. Vicky doesn't say any of this. She just tells him her solicitor will be in touch.

David nods into the phone.

There's a long silence. Then:

"Did you hear me, Dave?"

He nods again, clears his throat. "I heard you."

And with that, his marriage is over.

His phone continues to ring throughout the day. There's the occasional message from a friend or colleague. And Craddock wants to speak with him. He assumes the other unknown numbers are media outlets looking for a comment or, better yet, a tell-all exclusive with the Home Sex-retary's boytoy. The one person who doesn't call is Julia herself. From within his sealed, surrounded flat, he watches her pursued everywhere she goes. He watches her security team shuffle her quickly from portal to portal. He watches her ignore the lewd and leading questions. And finally he watches her lift one hand to shield her face from the insistently intrusive lenses. The news program freezes on the image, making it look grainy and tortured and shameful.

David picks up his phone, brings up the contact still named _Lavender _and stares at it. His thumb hovers over the call icon.

He meets with Craddock the next morning. Pacing back and forth behind her chair, she outlines all his many offences and shortcomings. Then, coming to the front of the desk and hitching her butt on the edge, she leans in like she's his best friend and biggest supporter. She tells him that even if he's cleared of all charges, he's more likely to be given a second chance if he moves into a different area of policing. David says he'll consider it. In fact, he's already come to the same conclusion. He's already arranged to meet an old friend currently working in Missing Persons. They get a drink at an obscure little pub and talk about the steps he'd need to take to become a detective.

Mike is blessedly reticent. Even and understated in everything he says and does. After collecting a second round from the bar, he re-takes his seat and glances at the telly, expression blank as Julia Montague is hounded from ministerial vehicle to Home Office entrance.

"Nice legs," he comments, lifting his beer to his lips. "Always did kinda fancy her..." He sips and sighs then adds without a look in his direction, "You're a lucky man."

David smiles and reaches for his glass.

By day three, he's sick of the pursuit. Facing his, witnessing hers, worrying about his family's. Trapped in his flat, slumped on his couch, David switches channels, snubbing the news in favour of a comedy panel show. He drops his head back against the couch, barely listening in the dark. Waiting, hoping, yearning for an actual shot of relieving laughter. After three jokes in which he and/or Julia are the punchline, he switches the television off and stares at his phone.

_Lavender._

It still doesn't ring.

Julia loses her job the next day. After the Security Service provides some incriminating audio of their time at The Blackwood, she's summarily relieved of her position as Home Secretary and relegated to the backbench. The Acting Prime Minister makes a statement about the internal probe into her unprofessional conduct before following up with sweeping promises about the clean, new government he's committed to creating. Julia makes no statement. Later, vision is shown of her sitting on the furthest bench in the chamber, behind all the turned backs of her colleagues. David sees it when he's playing with his kids on the floor in front of the television. They're happy to be back in their own home. They crawl on his back and kick at his ribs as he tries to listen to the update.

Returning home later that night, the press jump to attention at the approaching sight of him. They shout his name and repeat the same repertoire of questions that he has routinely refused to answer since the first headline hit. David walks slower through the familiar throng, pulls his keys from his pocket and slips the right one into the slot. Door open, he stops in place, turns around and faces them. He takes off his hat, bares his face to the lights. There's a breathless, astonished pause before he asks:

"What is it you want to know?"

A dozen frantic questions pepper him at once. They recover as a group and silently agree upon a rough speaking order. Lucky journalist number one asks:

"Did the Home Secretary pressure you into sex, David?"

David swallows thickly, answers even and clear, "No. The Home Secretary did not pressure me into sex. The relationship was consensual."

A brief buzz follows. Lights glint in his eyes. In the dark, he can't see the faces of the people behind the cameras. The next question emerges from the pack:

"Do you think the Home Secretary deserved to lose her job, David?"

He shuffles a little on the threshold. "The Home Secretary—" he falters, corrects himself, starts again. "The former Home Secretary and I breached protocol. But, from what I saw…Julia Montague was a dedicated public servant committed to serving her country."

The mutually agreed upon order is disrupted momentarily as multiple questioners call his name and pose their questions. One voice is audible over the others:

"What's your opinion of our new Prime Minister, David?"

David stares back, jaw clenched. "No comment."

There are a few interested mumbles and genial chuckles. Disembodied hands scribble in notebooks or type on digital devices. David feels like he's feeding a dangerous, ravenous animal.

"Are you still in contact with the former Home Secretary, David?"

"I'm concentrating on looking after my family and getting back to work."

"David, you were arrested in connection with the attempted assassination of Julia Montague, held under the Terrorism Act—"

"The police were just doing their jobs. And I can't comment on an ongoing investigation." He casts a look over their constantly shifting, constantly hustling outline. "One more."

The cacophony resumes. One voice asks him about his time in Afghanistan, whether he developed a sympathy for the Afghan people. Another voice asks how his wife and children are coping with his betrayal. A third voice asks if Julia Montague is as dominant in the bedchamber as she is in the government chamber. David waits until the commotion dies down then answers the final question put forward:

"Did you develop feelings for Julia Montague, David? Was the relationship romantic as well as consensual?"

David grips his hat in his hand, back to the door. "If those sort of feelings exist, they're between me and Ms Montague. Thank you—"

The horde surges forward as he slips inside his flat and closes the door on the barrage. The questions continue to come, the lights try to peer round the edges of the door. He can feel his face heating and his hands shaking and his heart beating. He's never experienced anything like that in his whole insignificant life. He doesn't know how she does it. He heads deeper into his private space without turning on any lights. He pulls the door open on the fridge and reaches for a cold beer but before he's even opened it, his phone starts to trill in his pocket. He expects an unknown number. Having given a little, the press will no doubt want the lot. His soul. Both their hearts. Minced into minute, laughable pieces. He pulls it out, looks at the caller ID:

_Lavender. _

David stares at it, standing in the middle of his unlit kitchen. She has every right to be angry. She hasn't said anything, not a thing. Despite all the questions, all those hacks poking about in sensitive places, fishing for a sordid reaction, sticking their noses into something that's nobody else's bloody business. She hasn't risen to the bait. Not once. She's held her head high and bit her tongue. She's conducted herself with dignity despite the indignity of their situation.

He answers with a sinking feeling. He doesn't say his name and she doesn't say hers. She just breathes for a moment. Then says:

"Thank you."

"You were watching?"

"Yeah."

David shakes his head. "I fucked up, I'm sorry—"

"No," she murmurs gently. "No, you did well." A long sigh gusts over the phone. "I've often wanted to do the exact same thing."

David puts his beer down, adjusts the phone against his ear. "Sorry about your job."

She probably nods, alone in her flat. "Will yours be alright?"

He makes a mumbling sound. "Jury's still out. So to speak." He bites his lower lip, grinds his teeth together. He wonders if now is the right time to tell her that everything is his fault, to apologise for all the things he didn't tell her, to convince her that he was working for her always, never against her. "Julia—"

She gives a sharp _ah_, forbidding the use of names, just in case. Then, taking a deep breath, she tells him, "I'd like to meet."

David stands straighter. "…Where?"

"The only place we've ever been alone." There's another pause and he pictures her wandering through her flat, maybe sipping wine, maybe dressed in pyjamas. "Can you get away?"

His days are blank so he agrees. Julia gives him a day and time. Then she falls silent. David leans back against the kitchen counter and listens to her breathe.

"Well…" she whispers after another long silence. "Goodnight."

He murmurs _goodnight_ but the sentiment feels incomplete without her name attached to it. Neither of them ends the call. Then finally, Julia does.

Two days later, he leaves hours ahead of time, drives all around London to make sure he isn't being tailed by any enterprising members of the press. He doesn't know the spot where he's headed well, having only been there once and in the dark, but he finds it fairly easily. It's still light when he arrives so he sits on the log and watches some ducks glide over the surface of the lake. He bought a sandwich on his roundabout journey so he feeds them the crusts as the sun sets.

It's dark by the time Julia's car lumbers noiselessly down the dirt road. It parks, tailpipe fuming and headlights glaring. She doesn't immediately appear. The car hums. The trees rustle. The ducks slip into hiding. Then a door opens and a high heel lands on the gravel. She walks towards him, her hair and her legs and the fluttering flaps of her jacket silhouetted by the bright lights emanating from the dark car. David peers at the driver's seat to see which of her bodyguards has accompanied her on this covert mission but the person behind the wheel remains faceless.

Julia reaches him, faces him, still in silhouette. "Thank you for coming."

He nods then lowers his gaze to the folder in her hand. "Is that what I think it is?"

She breathes in sharply. Then draws him away from the car, over the grass and under the spread branches of the tree that kept their past secrets so well. "I wanted to ask a favour."

David frowns at her shadowy face, eyes adjusting to the dark. "What kind of favour?"

"I want you to take this," she says, handing the folder across, "and give it to Chanel Dyson."

He takes the folder, frown deepening and brows rising. "Your old PR rep?"

Julia nods, her tone turning dry, "The little minx was always out for all she could get and that story will bring in a pretty penny."

David thumbs through the contents – everything he collected on Charlotte Foxfield, her connection to Roger Penhaligon and her knowledge of the conspiracy to discredit John Vosler is still present. "You want it leaked?"

"This isn't a power grab," Julia assures him smoothly. "If Roger has been working against the Prime Minister all this time, gathering false testimony in order to bring him down, then it's possible he had a hand in the crash that put John in that hospital bed."

He looks up, shakes his head. "All the papers say the crash was an accident." He pauses, studies her under his brows. "You have doubts?"

Julia shrugs and admits, "It could be paranoia. But if it's _not_…" she goes on, voice gaining momentum and determination, "then the people have a right to know. _John's family _have a right to know."

David closes the file and tucks it under his arm. "And what happens, if Penhaligon is removed?"

"I don't know." She looks at her feet, slips her hands into her trouser pockets. "I certainly would have no claim to the leadership, not from a position on the backbench."

He nods a few times, murmurs a succinct, "…'Kay."

Her brows lift. "You'll do it?"

He nods once more, takes a step back. "I'll let you know when it's done."

He's about to turn to his car, head back across the gravel. He hadn't really known what to expect, what, if anything, to hope for. This is probably all she called him out here for. Another test to prove his loyalty. Or one final gesture to atone for his lack of loyalty, for failing her on such a massive and pervasive scale. He's resigned to that fate. He's all set to take his orders and obediently retreat when Julia's voice stops him, one pale hand slipping out of her pocket and reaching towards him.

"I, ah…" Her eyelashes flutter and her voice falters. Her hand drops back to her side. "I'd like to see you again, if…" She shrugs, lips moving wordlessly for a moment. "Dinner perhaps. A proper meal, a proper date. Somewhere…somewhere discreet."

David turns back, squares his shoulders and recovers enough to suggest, "What about that place you used to go to?"

Julia's head tips and mouth half-smiles. "That place is…very expensive."

"Oh, you'll be buyin'," he mutters, indicating the folder, the favour.

Her smile relaxes, her head giving a dip of concession. "Seems fair. Saturday night?"

"I'm with the kids."

"Friday then. I'll clear my schedule."

David pauses then nods. "See you then."

Julia pauses then replies, "See you then."

He bows slightly, "Julia…" takes his folder and heads back to his car.

David places the folder on the passenger seat, starts his car and waits for the heating to kick in. He watches Julia stride back to her car, open the passenger side door and get in. Through the tinted windscreen, he can just see her speak to whoever is driving her and protecting her. He or she turns the wheel, pulls out of the clearing and heads back down the dirt road. David leaves a decent gap between their departing cars then does the same.

Chanel isn't hard to track down. Julia has helpfully provided a post-it note with the name of her preferred coffee chain. He camps out in the location closest to her home address and, on day two of his stakeout, she appears. She flirts with him mercilessly and he flirts right back. He flatters her into another meeting, saying he has some important information that he doesn't know what to do with. Surely, with her knowledge and experience of politics, she'll be able to help him out. He hands the folder over the next day and Chanel's smile as she absorbs the contents is nothing short of wolfish.

David rises from his seat, leans down close and delivers three parting phrases: "You didn't get this from me. This never happened. We never met."

Chanel looks up, eyes lit, and gives him a quick nod. David pulls his phone from his pocket as he exits the coffee shop. To Julia, he writes simply:

_Done._

He should probably spend the rest of the day tortured by the ethical implications of his actions. His nights ought to be made sleepless by the real-world consequences of taking down their country's leader. Instead, he thinks about Julia and their approaching date. There's nothing else for him to do. He's suspended from the force. He's got no access to its gyms or saunas or firing ranges. The television, internet and radio are not his friends. And with the press' prying attentions, Vicky is limiting his time with his kids.

So David sits on his couch and thinks about Julia. He drinks beer and thinks about her. He thinks about her as he showers. He thinks about her as he lies in his bed. His hands no longer shake and his eyes no longer stare at the ceiling. His medication has started to kick in and his system has started to calm. His sleep is even now and his dreams peaceful. He doesn't dream of her death and destruction. He dreams of her laughter and her pleasure and her warm, receiving body. He dreams of his lips on her neck and her arms around his body as his cock delves into in her lovely, wet cunt.

He wonders if their date has any chance of ending as his dreams all end. His body can't wait to find out, can't stand the suspense. His mind counts the days until the end of the week, cursing each hour for dragging its temporal heels. Every empty minute seems like a meaningless impediment. And yet more are added when Vicky's shift doesn't end on time.

It's not one of his scheduled days with the kids but when she needs him to cover he jumps at the chance. He spends the afternoon with Ella and Charlie – collecting them from school, keeping them away from the cameras, helping them with homework and cooking their tea. They're bathed and fed and sprawled in front of the television by the time their mum comes through the door, looking hurried and spent. David tries to slip straight out, telling her he has an important appointment to get to. But Vicky detains him in the vestibule, gravely handing him an envelope of thick papers.

He pauses, jacket on and keys in hand. He takes the papers out and stares at them, letting it sink in that his wife, the woman he once loved with mind, body and soul, is now handing him a contract that will dissolve their marriage. He leaves their old home with the papers in hand and places them on his dining table when he enters his flat. He showers, shaves and dresses in a fresh suit. He brushes his teeth as he stares at the envelope. David glances at his watch and knows that Julia will probably be arriving at the restaurant. He doesn't have time for this. But something in him needs it done. Needs it done now, before he meets her.

So before heading out the door, he opens the envelope, takes out the papers, scans and signs them. David adds his signature everywhere it's required then slips the papers back into their sleeve. He takes a detour on his way to the restaurant, dropping the envelope at his solicitor's address.

By the time he's padding up the carpeted steps, his forehead and armpits and palms are sweaty. He straightens his tie, buttons his jacket, draws a breath and enters the quietly tinkling room. He's not entirely sure how late he is, hopefully not so late that she's given up on him and left. He scans the area and a waiter approaches to assist. Julia spots him first though, rising from her chair and drawing his gaze. She's hard to miss amongst the reserved white, the tarnished bronze and the respectable mahogany. Bright red clings to her from shoulder to knee, leaving her arms and lower legs bare. Her hair shines and curls and her eyes are outlined in black. They're also pissed.

David can't help smiling as he waves the waiter off and makes his way towards her. Because despite any annoyance she might feel at his tardiness, her choice of that dress bodes well for his hopes for their date. That dress alone is worth everything he's been through for her. In it, she's worth every drop of angst, every cringe of doubt, every stab of betrayal. She's worth the risk, worth the effort and worth the wait.

Her black eyes narrow as he arrives in front of her. "You're late," she accuses bluntly.

David thinks of himself sitting in that jail cell, waiting for her to appear. He thinks about how he'd do it all again for her. "Call it payback."

Her expression softens slightly, her eyes search his face. "I thought you said we were even."

His smile eases, his chest expands in a deep breath. "Aye, I did say that. You're right..." He leans in, cups her elbow with one hand and plants a kiss on her cheek. Then he moves behind her to hold her chair. "Sorry to keep you waiting…"

Julia glances over her shoulder at him then smooths her hands over her arse as she takes her seat. David watches the unconscious gesture with a small smile then takes his seat opposite her.

_TBC..._

_A/N: So for anyone reading over here (who's also of appropriate age), I'm now going to direct you to AO3, as the rest of this story contains content that's too explicit for this site. You can find this story under the Bodyguard (TV 2018) tag and me under the pen-name mindy_makru_tutu. If anyone has any troubles finding the rest of this story, please don't hesitate to PM me. Thanks! :) _


End file.
